By the time she’s done, Ellie is covered in ichor, the blood staining her blue gown with a silver that fades to midnight.

Carefully, with the precision it takes to etch an intricate design onto a glass goblet, Ellie carves the tip of her blade into the monster’s flesh, chiseling its skin and muscle away piece by piece, peeling off the scales that get in her way with her bare hands.

I hear very little of it. The only sounds I can seem to focus on are those of my mother’s sobs.

When she’s done, Ellie screws up her face in dreadful anticipation, then plunges her hand into the cavern she’s carved in the monster’s flesh.

She strains out a sob, covering her mouth with her other hand as she squeezes her eyes shut.

Then, through the hole she’s made in the wyvern, Ellie Payne withdraws my father’s crown.

It still drips with ichor, which she wipes with the hem of her skirt.

Then Ellie Payne marches back over to me, where I stand, ears still buzzing on the castle steps.

She looks into my eyes, hers saturated with pain and adoration. Something squeezes my frozen chest.

She ascends, the step making her of equal height to me, and places the crown upon my head.

“Long live the king,” she says, her voice trembling.

Another murmur ripples through the onlooking crowd, but no one moves. No one speaks.

Determination flashes over my wife’s stunning features, and a hint of icy rage as she looks out over the crowd.

Just barely, I hear my cousin Casper’s voice as he leans over and whispers something to his mother. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Ellie must, because her nostrils flare.

Ellie squares her shoulders, takes my hand, and kneels before me.

“No,” I whisper to her. “No, I can’t.”

This crown doesn’t belong to me. It weighs me down, threatening to strangle me. Isn’t that why my father took to Ellie in the first place? Because I couldn’t be trusted with the throne? Because where I lack ambition, she possesses drive. Where I lack focus, she has vision.

But Ellie just lifts her eyes, shimmering through those beautiful thick eyelashes of hers. There’s no smile on her lips when she says, “Yes, Evander. You can. You can and you must.”

“Long live the king,” cries a familiar voice, the voice of my mother still weeping. Then she follows Ellie, kneeling. Even with her shoulders bowed, she gazes up at me with fierce determination.

Another thud as another pair of knees hits the ground. “Long live the king,” says Orion, a gash along his shoulder weeping blood.

Peck is next, and slowly, the crowd bends.

All the while, Ellie’s tears flow into my trembling hand as she squeezes it tight.

INTERLUDE MARCUS

“I don’t think anyone is home,” says Amity, her braid looking even more ragged than usual.

Typically, Piper tries her hand at braiding Amity’s hair. I wouldn’t say that Piper is an expert at it, but she’s certainly better than either me or Amity.

So here we are, about to make a large request to a rather irritable king, and my daughter looks like I pulled her out of a swamp.

She’s still adorable though, so at least we have that going for us.

I knock again on the gated entrance to the Avelean court, my knuckles dry as they rap against the dark walnut.

Again, no answer.

There’s not even a guard stationed outside.

This isn’t entirely surprising, but only because things were just as eerie the last time we visited the Avelean court. King Declan of Avelea rarely makes outside appearances, and the court itself? Well, it’s nowhere to be found. Last time we were here, we had the misfortune of meeting the king, but his family and courtiers were hauntingly absent.

At least there had been a festival going on then.

Now, without the jovial crowds, musical groups, and entertainment tents, the castle grounds are practically empty.

No, not practically empty. They are empty.

Except for me and Amity, of course.

“Evander probably forgot to send our letter,” says Amity, and though I would typically be inclined to agree with her summation of the prince, he’d seemed determined when he told me he’d do anything to help.

I lean my forehead against the door. It’s cool to the touch, mirroring the memory I have of the drafty, all but abandoned castle. The past several weeks, I’ve been keeping myself together for Amity. Not letting myself question whether we’ll find Piper.

But my hope has rested tenuously on recruiting help from within these walls, and if no one is here…

The latch on the gate clicks.

I jump backward just in time for the gears on the sides of the gate to spin, opening the doors with a buzzing whir.

On the other side is a young woman whose face shares my nose, my smile.

When she smiles.

Which isn’t often.

And certainly isn’t now.

“It’s a good thing I convinced Declan to let me come and see who was making such a racket,” my sister Cheyenne says, examining me and Amity. “Otherwise, he might have ripped the two of you to shreds.”

I tense, but Amity only laughs. “The king would never. I told him last time he needs to learn to be nicer.”

At that, Cheyenne almost smiles. Almost.

It hurts, seeing how reticent she is around me. In some ways, she’s still the Cheyenne I remember—light-brown skin that freckles in the sun, curly ringlets framing her face.

Those features I recognize. It’s the way she carries herself as a woman—chin high, eyes discerning, shoulders squared—that’s difficult for me to process.

Cheyenne gestures us inside, then leads us through the dingy castle.